


Or from that Sea of Time

by thedeadparrot



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 13:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeadparrot/pseuds/thedeadparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after Cuba, a different meeting on a beach. Charles will always show if Erik asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or from that Sea of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to for the beta. Apologies to Whitman for the title.

Charles can only get so close to the edge of the water before the smooth pavement gives way to soft sand. The sky overhead is overcast, gray clouds and the promise of rain, which means the beach is mostly empty even if summer is fast approaching. There's a few stragglers left, milling here and there. Charles can still sense them, even if they're too far away to see.

The ocean breeze smells of salt. There's the familiar call of seagulls in the air. Even though he knows it's futile, Charles feels a strange longing to dip his feet into the water, to feel the sand squeezed between his toes. As a child, he'd felt mildly resentful of trips to the beach. His skin burned too easily, and emotions ran higher and louder with so many people so close together, making it difficult to focus on his reading. Raven used to love it, though. She would run up and down the surf, letting just her feet turn blue when they were under the water, or maybe just one hand as she reached down to touch a starfish, a strand of seaweed.

It was so easy then to take simple things for granted. Charles is not one prone to bitterness. He understands far too well what he stands to lose if it ever consumes him. That's not a life he wants for himself. He still has so much to give.

Still, there are times when he finds it difficult not to yearn for the things he's lost, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem. He shakes the thought away. To lose yourself in the past is to close yourself off from the future.

He searches the beach with his eyes, looking for a familiar shape amongst the sand. It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. It's a bit comical, the way Erik's cape catches in the wind, one of the only spots of color on the otherwise empty beach. He's standing on the nearby boardwalk, leaning on the railing as he stares out at the sea. Charles wasn't expecting Erik's message asking him to meet him here, left on his desk in the middle of the night, most likely delivered by Azazel. It hadn't said much, simply listed a time and a place. The handwriting was distinct enough for Charles to know who had written it. Perhaps Charles should have told one of the others where he was going, what he was doing, but he hadn't. It would only raise questions that he wouldn't be able to answer.

"I wasn't sure you'd show," Erik says as Charles draws closer. His eyes are still vivid and bright and sharp, even as his mind is a blank space in the world. Charles may as well be talking to a well-rendered hologram. The helmet hides Erik's face, his hair, the new wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

"I'll always show," Charles says, "if you ask." He knows that this is a weakness, a vulnerability that Erik could pick at until it unravels entirely, but he doesn't think he'll ever lose his faith, his hope in Erik. He doesn't think he ever wants to, no matter what else comes between them.

"Is that so, Charles?" Erik asks. His tone is arch, as smoothly controlled as the rest of him.

"Yes," Charles says. There's no need to lie, not between them. He turns towards the ocean, the deep blue waves capped by white foam. He listens to the rush of water as it breaks against the shore.

"It will always be like this, won't it?" Erik says. Charles understands what he means. Covert meetings far from the X-Men or the Brotherhood, carefully chosen words, a distance between them when they used to stand side by side.

"Perhaps," Charles says. "Things can change. We've changed."

Erik's smile is thin and hard and cruel. "Have we really, Charles? We always seem to end up back where we started in the end."

"I have." Charles curls his fingers around the armrests of his chair and feels the smooth wood underneath his fingers. "Maybe you still think of yourself as scared little boy--" and his voice is a lot sharper than it needs to be.

He's interrupted by the sound of straining, folding metal. A nearby sign snaps in half. Erik's face has gotten paler, and his expression is hard enough to cut glass. Charles's wheelchair rattles ever so slightly.

Charles sighs and forces his hands to relax. "I'm sorry. That was... unkind."

Erik says, "You have changed." The rattling stops. His face smooths out into something unreadable.

"I fear that we bring the worst out of each other, as always, my friend," Charles says. Somewhere further down the beach, out of eyesight, a man is kissing his lover. His eyes are closed, and he thinks she is the most beautiful person in the entire world.

"Yes, and the best," Erik says, being uncommonly charitable.

They fall into silence. Charles can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance and smell the oncoming scent of ozone.

"Why am I here, Erik?" Charles asks.

Erik says, "Do I need a reason? This could just a social call, Charles. You do spend far too much time hiding away in that mansion of yours."

"I don't have time for games," Charles says. He tilts his head up to inspect the sky, gray on gray. He wonders how long it will be before it starts to rain.

Erik turns away, muffling the sound of his voice. "Would you believe I've missed you, Charles?"

Charles starts at that, "What?" He had considered-- he had hoped-- but it is still different to hear it out loud, a gift freely given.

"I've missed you," Erik repeats. He's still turned away, and all Charles can see is the back of his helmet.

Charles takes a deep breath. "I've missed you, too." It's easy to say. It's the truth. "But I fear we may have to take this conversation elsewhere."

As if on cue, large rain drops fall from the sky, dark dots on the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Charles can feel it in his hair, soaking through his shirt. It'll become uncomfortable soon. He's about to push himself towards the nearest shelter, an overhanging roof near the closed lifeguard station, when he feels the psychic energy in the air shift. Erik has taken his helmet off. Charles can finally see him fully for the first time in a very long while.

He's older. His mind has taken on an unfamiliar weariness, and his hair is threaded through with gray. He has closed his eyes and tilted his head up to face the sky. Charles can only stare, dumbfounded, drinking in the sight of him. Erik is beautiful. Erik has always been beautiful, and Charles has missed him so very much.

Erik's enjoying the moment, completely unguarded for once. He enjoys the way the rain smells, fresh and clean, and he likes the way the water soaks his sweaty hair, and he feels a thrill at the impending threat of the thunder in the distance. His joy soaks into Charles's skin, warming him up from the inside out.

Erik turns to look at Charles, and for a moment, Charles gets the uncanny view of how Erik sees him. Charles is pale, his white shirt soaked through and clinging to his shoulders and chest. His hair is plastered to his head. His eyes are wide and startled. All throughout it, he can feel the threads of Erik's affection for him, warm and intimate and familiar.

"Come now, Charles," Erik says, shouting to be heard over the rain. "Surely this can't be much of a surprise."

_You underestimate yourself, my friend,_ Charles says. For the first time in quite a while now, he feels young again.

Erik just laughs at that before he pulls Charles close by the metal of his wheelchair. They kiss like this, with the taste of rain on their lips, with the bright flash of lightning overhead.

\---

They end up in Charles's hotel room, peeling their wet clothes from their bodies and arranging them on the nearby radiator. It reminds Charles of Chicago, getting caught in a sudden storm without their umbrellas. Erik had played at being cranky about it, but Charles could feel his amusement at the way Charles looked -- like a drowned puppy, apparently. That was before-- that was before they'd gotten closer, but the memory is still sweet. It is unmarked by their later betrayals, refreshingly innocent.

It takes Charles longer than Erik to get his clothes off. His shirt is easy enough. He manages to work his trousers off with one hand, leaving his pants on. They're only slightly damp. Erik strips everything off, and it leaves Charles feeling self-conscious of how much weight he's lost, the atrophied muscles in his legs.

Erik watches him, eyes fixed on Charles's back as Charles wriggles out of his trousers. Charles is doing his level best not to read Erik's mind. It would clear the air if he did, perhaps. Their kiss on the beach might have been an aberration, nostalgia for a time long past. It could mean something else entirely. Maybe Charles would much rather leave it ambiguous.

And then Erik's hand is pressed against his neck, sliding lower so that his fingers brush against Charles's shoulder blades. Charles fights back his instinctive shiver.

"Erik," Charles says, and his voice feels heavy, weighed down with all the things he wants to say.

The storm outside has waned. Pale light spills in through the windows. Erik doesn't say anything in response, and Charles is left with the soft patter of rain outside their window, the pop-hiss of the radiator, the syncopated rhythms of their breathing.

"Erik, I--" Charles starts again. He meets Erik's eyes, and what he sees there is alien to him.

"This hasn't changed," Erik says. His voice is rough and low, his accent more strongly Germanic. With most of their clothes off, it's easier to let the years fall away. They have new scars and new bodies, but it's not so different from how it used to be.

"No, it hasn't," Charles says. He moves himself onto the bed. It's a smooth motion, practiced and easy. Erik still watches.

This time he's staring at the scar, the one Charles usually hides under layers of clothing, the one that's peeking out from the waistband of Charles's pants. "I--" Erik says, and for a moment, he looks lost, uncertain for the first time today. They haven't done this since their visit to Cuba. Erik still doesn't know the full extent of Charles's injuries.

"Come here," Charles says. He manages to get himself sitting against the headboard, the wood comfortable against his back.

Erik crawls onto the bed and into Charles's lap, kissing him, more fiercely this time. He still tastes like rain with a dash of sea salt for flavor. His hair is damp underneath Charles's fingers.

The last time they met, Banshee came home with a broken arm, and Havok set one of the light fixtures in his room on fire while having a nightmare. Charles is prone to forgiveness. He likes leaving the past where it is. That doesn't mean this can be anything more than it is.

When Erik pulls away from the kiss, he's breathing hard, and his eyes are dark. His hands are resting on Charles's legs, were Charles can't feel them. Erik says, "How do I--" He skims his hands higher up, fingers clutching at the fabric of Charles's pants.

Charles says, "It's not so different, I suppose." He tries to keep his tone light, but he can hear the way his emotions bleed into his voice. He touches Erik's shoulders, his arms, his wrists, his ribs. There's a new scar on Erik's abdomen, pale and mostly healed. Charles resists the urge to pluck the story of it from Erik's mind.

Erik smiles, and for once, there's no sharpness, no cruelty in it. He tugs Charles's pants down and wraps a hand around Charles's cock. Charles can't feel it, but he still enjoys the sight of it, the knowledge that Erik still wants this from him.

It's difficult to take Charles by surprise, so he's expecting Erik's next move, but he's not expecting the pure delight that Erik feels when he kisses the head of Charles's cock. Charles rests a hand on the back of Erik's head, running his fingers through the soft strands of hair there. He closes his eyes and lets their thoughts mingle together. Erik's arousal feels the same as it always has, tangled and rough and uncertain, and even though Charles can't feel Erik's touch, he can still have this.

Erik make a warm, pleased sound and sinks his head down the rest of the way. Charles isn't hard, yet. His body isn't always good at keeping up with him, and it's impossible for him to tell how effective Erik is being. He likes the way Erik likes it, most of all. He likes the way Erik feels a rush of satisfaction, an ache of longing, a memory of the first time he was allowed to do this, Charles's body laid open for him to touch and explore.

Their happiness was so easy, then. It has been become complicated now. It must be navigated and negotiated, a careful diplomacy that Charles hadn't always had the patience for when he was younger. He's learned quite a bit since then. Erik's departure made sure of that.

Charles lets himself enjoy this for a few moments before he tugs on Erik's hair. Erik pulls back, somewhat reluctantly. His mouth is swollen and wet. Charles says, "Come here."

Erik kisses him again, languid this time. He cups Charles's face with his hands. They're so warm on Charles's chilled skin. There are fewer callouses on his fingers. For once, Erik's mind is as still as a winter's day, all the roughness smoothed over, covered up.

Charles grips Erik's hips. "Up," he says, and Erik crawls forward. His cock bobs slightly as he moves, already hard. Charles gets his hands on it, and Erik lets out a soft sound. His eyes are squeezed tight. His hands are clenched into fists. Charles wants to peel Erik's control away from him inch by inch until he's stripped of it, completely bare and wanting in front of Charles's eyes and mind.

Erik's skin is so familiar to Charles, so easy to touch and so easy to taste. Erik makes a strangled sound when Charles gets his lips around him. His fingers tighten in Charles's hair when Charles flicks his tongue against the head. Erik's arousal burns white-hot, and Charles revels in the sensations that he's lost. His own skin prickles with heat, sensitive to the touch. In theory, he could have stolen into any number of minds for this -- the bunching and tensing of thigh muscles, the curl and flex of toes, the physical arousal in sync with the psychological -- but Charles is _making_ Erik feel this. This belongs entirely to Charles. "More," Erik hisses out between clenched teeth.

Charles uses Erik’s hips to pull him in closer, letting the head of Erik's cock bump against the soft palate of his mouth. He closes his eyes and sucks down harder, tasting salt and precome. In the days before, Charles liked to sink down on his knees and shove Erik against the nearest wall, taking him down as far as he could go. He tries not to think of that now. He focuses on the soft cotton of the sheets, the solid wood of the headboard, the way Erik's cock is long and hard and thick, filling his mouth up until his jaw aches with it.

He pulls back, and Erik's cock slides out of his mouth. Erik makes an annoyed sound, irritated at the interruption. He's not fighting his arousal any longer, and his eyes are heavy-lidded with desire, his expression softer than anything Charles has seen on him in a long while. Charles sucks on two of his own fingers to get them nice and wet, and Erik licks his lips at the sight of it.

"Patience," Charles says, and he can't help raising an eyebrow. Erik huffs out a small laugh. He loses his hard angles and his sharpness like this, and Charles wants to hold onto that. He wants so many things, all of them foolish.

Charles's nipples are hard. He absently rubs one with his fingers and shivers at pleasure he feels. It's different now. The sensation is more diffuse, no longer centered on one location. His own orgasms these days have been difficult, but Erik's -- Erik's are still easy.

He leans forward again so that he can pull Erik's cock back into his mouth. He reaches underneath Erik's balls and presses his fingers against the smooth skin there. He can feel Erik's sharp intake of breath just as easily as he can hear it. Charles goes quicker this time, doesn't bother teasing. He wants this. He wants Erik, all of it, everything Erik is and never was and could be again one day. Charles moves his free hand further back. The first finger slides into Erik's ass easily, and Erik's hips jerk forward at the sensation. "Charles," Erik says. " _Please._ " His voice is ragged, thick with emotions that echo through Charles's mind. He slides the second finger in along with the first.

_Yes,_ Charles thinks, taking pity on him. He flutters his fingers against Erik's prostate and takes Erik's cock as far down his throat as he can. Erik comes with a bitten off cry, and Charles rides the sensation of it, the way it sets off bright sparks behind Erik's eyelids, the way Erik's body shakes with it from head to toe. His body echoes the feeling, a shudder that leaves his own body wrung out and exhausted as well.

It takes a moment to disentangle them, mentally and physically. Afterwards, Charles presses kisses against Erik's cheeks, his forehead, his neck, his collarbone. Erik cards his fingers through Charles's thinning hair and traces the knobs of Charles's spine, lingering on the scar. Charles can't tell if he goes any further than that. Erik is distracted. His mind is caught up in how long he can keep this, how long he can make it last. 

Charles feels warm and sleepy with afterglow, more relaxed than he has been for a while, but the old doubt is creeping up on him. This won't last into tomorrow, Charles knows. It can't. Tomorrow, Erik will put the helmet back on and become Magento again. Tomorrow, they'll be enemies.

"You're worrying," Erik says. Charles can feel his spike of concern. There's another storm rolling through, and the sky outside their window is covered in dark, textured clouds.

Charles smiles at him. "Can you blame me?" he asks. "You worry about the future as well, in your own way."

"Not here, Charles," Erik says. "Not now." He's telling the truth. Charles takes a deep breath and curls a hand around Erik's wrist. They have this right now. He should enjoy it.

As much as Charles would love to fall asleep right now, his injury has made his bedtime routine far more complicated. He's had enough practice that it's not difficult to navigate the unfamiliar hotel room. Most of it is habit by now, but he can feel Erik's eyes on the back of his neck as he cleans himself up, gets himself ready, and the heaviness of Erik's guilt seems to fill the whole room.

"I forgive you, you know," Charles says, "for all of it." It's true most days, and it's even true right now. He climbs into bed next to Erik, and Erik curls around him, an arm thrown across Charles's waist, right at the border of what Charles can feel.

"I know," Erik says, and the weight in the room gets heavier.

Nothing has changed. They're still who they are. Charles closes his eyes and lets himself sleep.

\---

At night, Erik dreams of the Cuban beach. Charles falls into the dream by accident, brought on by their physical proximity. The scene is familiar. There's the submarine with the sides torn out, the stretch of sand, pieces of wreckage from the jet still burning, palm trees flattened on the ground. Other than that, it's empty and quiet. No Shaw, no Moira, no Brotherhood, no X-Men. There are no ships in the distance to shoot missiles, no guns filled with bullets to shatter spines.

Charles can walk.

"What are you doing here, Charles?" Erik asks. He's wearing his helmet in this dream, cold and hard and impenetrable.

Charles laughs. "I have no idea, my friend," he says. He turns away to face the ocean. It smells the same as he remembers, salt and petrol and burning metal, but it doesn't matter. He takes off his shoes and his socks. He rolls up the cuffs of his trousers, and he walks to the edge of the water.

He lets the waves wash over his feet and feels the sand beneath his toes. He smiles. The expression feels out of place here.

"Is this all it takes to make you happy?" Erik asks from behind him. His voice closer than Charles thought he might be, and the dream itself seems to echo with his amusement and his affection. The sun beats down on his back, his neck, his face.

"For now," Charles says, laughing as a particularly high wave licks at his knees. Simple, uncomplicated pleasures are so rare these days. Charles must take them when and where he can. Erik comes and stands by him without further comment. He's still wearing his boots, and the water soaks into the cuffs of his trousers.

They stand there until the sun dips below the horizon and the stars fill the sky overhead, until the dream finally fades away.

 

FIN.


End file.
